


Decanter

by personaljunkdrawer



Series: Bourbon [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Dom Tony Stark, Dom/sub Undertones, Endgame Fix-It, Energy Play, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Crack, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Sub Peter Parker, When I say canon non-compliant I mean the canon barely exists, peter is 18+
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/personaljunkdrawer/pseuds/personaljunkdrawer
Summary: "Peter...?" Tony leaned back into his seat, maintaining a firm grasp on the eye contact- bourbon, mahogany. He could see the bob of his slender throat as Peter swallowed, a vision. He willed his tongue back from it's swipe across his lips. Parched. Unquenched.Peter's own lips looked luxuriant. What a lush, all that damn bourbon making his head swim."Can you...? Pepper is busy."  Held out the box. Jewelry then, a necklace."Of course. Come-" Tony agreed. He cleared his throat of unspoken debris, of questions caught at the last moment, into a casual tone. " - come here, Peter."The swish of Peter’s gown curled into the clink of crystal and crackle of fire. He approached carefully, unable to break Tony's gaze, that dark, wide expanse threatening,promisingto swallow him whole, long legs and slender waist drawing delicately nearer; like he was sweet to the taste, something smooth decanted into Tony's waiting hand, there to sate. To quench. He eyed the glass.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Bourbon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144400
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Decanter

**Author's Note:**

> Decanter (noun): a vessel that is used to hold the decantation of liquid which may contain sediment.
> 
> \---
> 
> I do not have words for how much I owe @TellMeNoAgain for this, right here. Thank you for inspiring, and supporting, and cheering, and beta-ing, and smishing, and pep-talking, and everything you do.

Tony swiped away, tense and hurriedly, at his tablet. He’d propped it on his lap with his one hand free while the other swirled and clinked at the bourbon, poured into the crystal glass.The warm brown and clear decanter always reminded him of The Alchemist. He gave himself a private little grin. 

There was a knock at the mahogany door of the study. He placed his tablet aside. The clock read quarter till; Happy would be collecting them all soon. 

"Come in." The door clicked open. Peter stepped in. Tony drew in a grounding breath. _Thank you, Bruce, for the lessons._

The gown, crushed emerald and velvet sheened, swept the floor at his feet. He held a small black case in hand. "Mr. Stark?" 

"Peter...?" Tony leaned back into his seat, maintaining a firm grasp on the eye contact- bourbon, mahogany. He could see the bob of his slender throat as Peter swallowed, a vision. He willed his tongue back from it's swipe across his lips. Parched. Unquenched.

Peter's own lips looked luxuriant. What a lush, all that damn bourbon making his head swim. 

"Can you...? Pepper is busy." Held out the box. Jewelry then, a necklace.

"Of course. Come-" Tony agreed. He cleared his throat of unspoken debris, of questions caught at the last moment, into a casual tone. " - come here, Peter." 

The swish of Peter’s gown curled into the clink of crystal and crackle of fire. He approached carefully, unable to break Tony's gaze, that dark, wide expanse threatening, _promising_ to swallow him whole, long legs and slender waist drawing delicately nearer; like he was sweet to the taste, something smooth decanted into Tony's waiting hand, there to sate. To quench. He eyed the glass.

"Good boy." Tony's face broke into a smile, friendly. Peter blushed. The peach did wonders against the green. 

Happy would be collecting them soon. It was less than a quarter till. 

"Thank you, Sir," Peter whispered. "For...for helping me." 

"My pleasure," Mr. Stark charmed, eyes twinkling. Dark eyes that matched the desk, the walls, the bookshelf. All sturdy surfaces, pedestals for iridescence. He took a sip of his bourbon. Peter ached somewhere delicate. Tony uncrossed his legs, fine leather coming onto the floor. 

"I-" Peter offered him the box. He accepted it. And then, despite the luxuriant drawl of the exchange, Peter was suddenly on his knees,head bowed and hands in his lap, kneeling at Tony's feet, between his uncrossed legs. Even his shoes were beautiful; a distinctly elegant masculinity, somehow subtle and yet compelling in a way only Mr. Stark could be. A tender and delicate urge in Peter’s chest gave way to a gnawing swell. He wanted to cry, wanted to feel with his lips his own tears against the fine Italian shape of it all. He bit his lips instead. 

"Oh, good boy, Peter." Mr. Stark left his throat uncleared, lined in smoke and gravel, parched and swept with libation. 

"Thank you, Sir," Peter gasped, the roseate hue of a blush tracing from his throat upward, to tease behind freckles.

Tony was careful with the box - far more so than he'd been with the tablet or even the whisky. He curved his fingers to keep his rings from brushing the velvet.

Inside lay a necklace; a thin gold chain with a single, ruby droplet. Perfect. Peter took in a soft, shuddering breath, eyes trained low.

"Come here, Peter," he gave, just loud enough to be heard. Gently. 

Peter nodded, eyes daring up to make contact. It burned him, that gaze, singed his edges with that smoldering darkness, sent the periphery of himself somewhere upward, floating. Ashen. Mahogany. Such secure surfaces, such a nice place to lean.

He stopped himself from leaning forward against Tony's knee. 

Tony hummed, brandishing the clasp and circlet of the necklace in either hand. "Come here, Peter." 

"O-oh," Peter breathed, swaying closer, a crackle of relief letting worries drift off like embers. "Thank you, Sir." His weight braced against Mr. Stark's leg. 

"Good." It was more an observation than a compliment but either way there was that rose again, unfurling higher to bless the tips of his ears. "Beautiful." 

Peter gasped at the brush of fingers against his throat. His breath caught in his chest. Mr. Stark watching as it rose and fell. The insides of his wrist brushed over Peter's pulse point. It fluttered like a caught rabbit, like a doe staring into the light rushing toward it, wide, fawn, bourbon eyes.

His rough, work-callused hands rested gently behind Peter's neck. The upswing of each pendulous tick of the clock gave him time, gave him the brush of an eyelash on one arm, or the warmth of a sigh on the other.

Only a small bounty of ticks left, less than a thousand, before another knock jarred time back to its uncaring stride, and the valet beckoned them away - out into the bright white of snow and cold.

The clasp clicked into place. He stalled. Peter's sigh was just enough to brush a vocal chord, just enough to offer a tremble of loss. Tony tisked. Couldn't have that.

He pressed his palm to Peter's cheek. Peter pressed back, more of him scalding and floating away, into the smoky haze left by the blazing mahogany. The loss of that sigh was one of relief.

"Good." Tony watched, observed, noted, the pleading in his eyes, the small pink of a tongue across plush lips. There and then gone, a mirage to a parched man. Lush.

His other hand worked separately, dipping a pointer finger into the glass on the side table. Peter felt himself burn, parts of him feverish with all of it.

Tony brought his hand back, the wet slipping down his finger, over his ring. He held it out, before Peter.

"Mr. Stark...?" Peter’s hand rose, fingers tentative and questioning on the casually cuff-linked wrist.

"Peter." 

Peter gasped, scraped raw by the gravel and choking on the smoke. He edged up onto his knees, his side still pressed to the fine fabric of Mr. Stark's suit leg. His eyes fluttered shut, and he would've missed the sight of Mr. Stark's demise, were it not for the feel of the metal sigil of the ring against his lips. He wasn't sure who shuddered, it didn't matter. He dared a lick, the droplets pooled into the crevices of the signet dancing on his tongue.

"Very good, Peter. Taste it." Mr. Stark was spinning, impossibly fast and imperceptibly slow, like a satellite about a star, in a rapturous orbit. "Are you parched, Peter?" 

Peter sighed, "Yes, Sir," his lips brushing knuckles. It was past a quarter till; the clock strained and stretched and sighed. Happy would be collecting the two of them in less than fifteen minutes, but until then.

"Sate yourself."

Peter held his gaze, dragging his lips up to the tip of his finger, settled his lips around. Sucked.

"Good boy, Peter."

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this was a fun exercise in nerve-wracking nonsense and bar-fights with my perfectionism. Please be gentle in the comments.


End file.
